


Brat

by crewdlydrawn



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Discussion of Human Trafficking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oneshot, Pouting, Ranskahov's business, Showers, Sibling Incest, Spooning, Vladimir being ridiculous, author does not speak Russian, fandomwritingchallenge, impatient Vladimir, poor attempts by author at a few Russian words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: 5 times Vladimir felt invisible in plain sight, and 1 time he wished only to hide and Anatoly would not allow it.**For May 2017's Fandom Writing Challenge on tumblr.





	Brat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Menirva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/gifts).



> My contribution to the [Fandom Writing Challenge](https://fandomwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/160244228147/welcome-to-the-fifth-round-of-the-fandom-writing) on tumblr. (Link is to June's challenge post/rules, in case anyone wants to jump in before the end of May!)

**1)** When Anatoly's back bent forward far enough, if he were wearing the right trousers, his ass was framed just right by the seams of the material.  How Vladimir was expected to focus on anything else was a misunderstanding of nature.  Maps of the city were spread out on the office desk, Anatoly's hands flat on its surface as he leaned over them, his ass in perfect view beneath his pants. 

Vladimir was supposed to be helping, at least, that had been the point, to mark off locations where the man in black had been sighted.  He had done his part, rattling off two reports from their men, before sitting in one of the wood and metal chairs typically reserved for 'guests'.  Man in black was a problem, their problem, but not so big of a problem that it could hold all of Vladimir's attention at once.  His current view gave him... ideas.

Bored of dots and the city's flat boxes, Vladimir ignored the map completely as he stood and stepped up near Anatoly.  One hand on the edge of the desk earned him no response, his brother's eyes firmly set on the paper.  Quiet mutters fell from his lips between swallows from a bottle.  Those only drew Vladimir's gaze—along with his desire—toward their owner's mouth.  Lucky bottle.

Allowing all of his movement to make sound, Vladimir inched closer along the edge of the desk, fingertips grazing the lacquered wood.  Closer... nothing.  Closer still, and he could hear the soft grating sound of Anatoly's breath as it was drawn in through his nostrils.  Vladimir's arm brushed lengthily against Anatoly's arm, and still no reaction.  Lips pressed out in frustration, Vladimir leaned his head forward, beginning to encroach on the space between Anatoly's eyes and the map.  Definitely in sight.

" _Rebenok [brat]_ ," was all he earned, accompanied by a weighted sigh that promised his brother's near-full attention had remained exactly where it was.  His left hand, however, its circled dot staring at Vladimir as it rose, lifted off of the desk only to quickly flick a turn, planting its palm directly and completely over Vladimir's face, and pushed. 

 

 **2)** Voices droned in front of him, and Vladimir fiddled with his belt.  It was not a day he felt like presenting himself for inconsequential "investors" in their dealings, no matter how good he knew he looked.  Anatoly wore a suit and jacket, a professional image that shaped his body in a way that made keeping attention on the meeting far more difficult.

Vladimir was bored before the first thread of conversation had wound its way into a knot. 

Situating his hands into his lap, his eyes on those across the table, hardly worth the expensive gift of his time, Vladimir slipped his right hand to the side.  He had been tempted to slip between his own legs, but had been chided for that recently enough.  Dangling his arm for a moment, he allowed the backs of his knuckles to graze along the outer seam of Anatoly's pantleg.  Not a twitch or shift of the limb replied. 

Jaw tightening, Vladimir's eyes drifted upward, behind their lids.  "Enough tip-toeing," he lobbed across the table, his fingertips unseen as they traced patterns over the fabric beneath them, "either our agreement is to your liking or not."

Anatoly's low breath was clearly meant to instill patience in Vladimir's body and mind, but rare was the time it ever managed to work.  As his brother negotiated percentages, Vladimir set his mouth firmly, an impassive expression to distract from his palm and fingers stretching out over the top of Anatoly's thigh. 

 _React, Toyla,_ he willed silently, the game only fun with multiple players.  The limb remained still, no twitching or shifting, even with fingers curling around the swell of its muscles.  Conversation droning on with numbers and particulars, Vladimir made his move, covering Anatoly's cock with his hand, stroking, squeezing. 

A quick toe to Vladimir's shin began a smooth transition from being seated to Anatoly on his feet, Vladimir's hand falling away as he rose.  A scowl stole all of Vladimir's features—though it did not seem their investors noticed a difference—as he stood, chin raised, fingers shifting in want of a destination, lips twitching with the same.

 

 **3)** Seven meetings.  Seven meetings that same afternoon, and Vladimir no longer even saw the faces of the meaningless people sitting in the office's chairs.  Vladimir did not bother with a chair anymore, instead lending his weight to the side of the desk from behind which Anatoly sat and updated their employees.  Not all directives were given from an office--most, in fact, were not—but for some the extra appearance of authority kept the system running more smoothly.

Hitching more of his leg onto the polished wood as time droned on, all of his weight had shifted to the desk after the fifth conversation.  Runners, delivery makers, he couldn't be sure; their voices all sounded the same by then, all bleeding together into one sound.  Vladimir's body itched to move, his fists to punch something, his feet to crush something, and last but most assuredly not least, his cock to fuck something.

How his brother could ignore his own needs for so long at a time evaded Vladimir, and at the same time utterly frustrated him.  Those needs were often shared directly by his own body, slaked by the same.  When Anatoly went without, so, often, did Vladimir.  Not for lack of access to other sources, but a desire denied fanned a much stronger flame.

By the time Anatoly had finished discussions with a few of their most trusted men, Vladimir was bodily atop the desk, not a part of his frame hanging over the edge.  Knees bent, his calves were crossed in front of him, and elbows leaned down on his thighs to keep him upright and alert-enough-looking to pass for paying the smallest amount of attention.  Anatoly had told him before that appearing actively bored but aware often served as a positive presence.  Whether that were actually true or merely a ploy to keep Vladimir's ears open, he did not quite care to analyze.

Their men retreated at last, and with the door closed, he turned to look at his brother, catching his eye before lying back.  Like a cat, he stretched his body across the top of the desk, his torso taut, belly drawing out from beneath his belt as the material lifted.  Hands rising to rest behind his head shifted the hem of his shirt enough to untuck it, and Vladimir was keenly aware that he would look inviting as he bent one leg, boot flat on the desktop, the other dangling over the side on which he had sat.  Perfect, yes.

Anatoly stood from his chair, looking down at the offering Vladimir had made of himself, and moved his arm closer to Vladimir, who smirked at expecting his touch.  That touch, however, came in the form of a back-handed smack down onto Vladimir's stomach.

" _Lenivyy [lazy]_.  Get up," he ordered, fishing into Vladimir's pocket—not the way in which he wished that that hand would enter his pants—and taking his keys, "we have work to do."

 

 **4)** Yes, the pretty ones were the better ones; they sold for more, and they were much more fun to steal.  However, the prettier ones tended to be wanted more by their families, and kept under a closer watch, even the poor ones.  That night's shopping list was not one of the poor, in fact his father was on the wealthier side of the scale, as well as in need of a lesson in obedience.  With such a high profile, he wouldn't have been their first choice, but even an ugly duckling would teach his parent enough of a lesson--especially when he was coming with them, as well. 

At least, they would be within an hour.  Or two.  Or possibly three.  Vladimir couldn't remember how much time had been said, and had already been told not to ask again.  From his position in the passenger seat of the SUV, it had been at least a day, no matter if Anatoly would say it had been only twenty minutes.  Three hours or twenty minutes, waiting was waiting.  Waiting was boring.

To his left, Anatoly sat behind the wheel, his attention split between watching the apartment building and checking his phone for other updates.  His expression had not shifted since they parked.  Meanwhile, not one part of Vladimir's body was in the same position in which it had started.  Boots had been on the dash and the floor, crossed and uncrossed, and briefly aimed at the gear shaft before they had been smacked at.  Arms had been folded, stretched forward, bent to the sides, propped behind his head, and were currently vibrating at the same frequency as the toes of his boots.

"Mir."  It was a mutter, always, the unofficial nickname.  Only eased out when Anatoly did not have the patience to even use the fill form.  "You must be still, _brat [brother]_.  Car is shaking."  At the grunt of complaint, he continued, "We must be patient— _you_ must be patient."

That word has lost meaning for Vladimir.  "I know, I know," he argued, shifting once more, but more slowly, shaking the vehicle less, "but what is taking so _long_?"

Anatoly exhaled in a manner and tone that appeared when he found Vladimir to be being 'cute'.  So Vladimir made himself 'cuter', curving his spine to the left, resting his head so that it nestled against Anatoly's shoulder.  "I have ideas for how to pass time..."  He allowed the sentence to drop off, his voice lowering along with his gaze. 

A quiet hiss was the first reply, the shoulder beneath his head shifting as Anatoly's arms readjusted to better operate the screen of his cell.  The second reply was flat, leaving little room for argument.  "We would lose focus."

" _I_ might lose focus," he muttered, reaching for Anatoly's thigh.  His own eyes were on the apartment building only as a ruse as his hand slid over the trousers’ material, down the ravine of his inner thigh to the cut-angle curve there.  His fingertips danced across his groin. 

"No, _brat_."

Reaching fingers were smacked sharply for their trouble, and that was the end of it.

 

 **5)**  Thin steam filtered into their bedroom, alerting Vladimir that Anatoly was occupying the shower before he even heard the water.  With the door only mostly closed, Vladimir swung it wide and stepped into the bathroom, assaulted instantly by the heated humidity that already fully covered the mirror on the wall opposite the stall. 

"Close it," barked the order from beneath the water, "you are letting steam out."

Smirking, Vladimir closed the door only to shuck his clothing, swiping at the mirrored glass just enough to take a look at himself before ducking behind the plastic hanging curtain.  Stepping in carefully, he watched Anatoly lathering his body, the basin beneath their feet already littered with bubbles.  Soapy water ran down Anatoly's skin in rivers that drew Vladimir's eyes and made his body hungry.

Though they were accustomed to sharing water, from having a single bucket and a bit of lye and later by choice, Vladimir was wanting for more than the conservation of resources.  It was not fond memory that had his hands slick with the soap, much more gentle in its treatment than the lye.  Rather, his body in need of contact with his brother's.He began by washing Anatoly's back, his shoulders, rubbing his first two fingers' tips up the nape of his neck, into the base of his hairline, hoping to earn enough points of pleasant contact to account for where his opposite hand was headed.  It slid down Anatoly's side, to his waist, and surged forward to pull his body back against Vladimir's. 

Their bodies met, and water was immediately aimed into Vladimir's eyes, running swiftly over the rest of his face.

Anatoly shifted forward, his hand dropping from the shower head.  "No."  Turning, he smirked at Vladimir's sputtering.  "Get washed before there is no more hot water," he directed with a flick of the pool in his hand.  After a quick rinse, Anatoly sent a swift slap to Vladimir's ass, and stepped out of the stall to dry himself.

Annoyed, Vladimir glared at his brother's steamy silhouette from behind the curtain.  Slipping soap-slick fingers around his own erection, he loudly jerked himself off from under the water's spray, sparing no sound, knowing he could be heard even if there was no reaction forthcoming.  There wasn't.  Vladimir scowled even through his orgasm.

 

 **1)**   Going to bed alone was normal.  Much of their time was spent together, both on purpose and by necessity, but it was not unusual for one of them to find the bed before the other.  That particular night did not feel normal for Vladimir, however.  His skin ached from lack of contact, and the grey-white walls of their shared bedroom felt colder staring back at only him.  No other sounds met his ears while he changed out of his clothes, flopping onto the bed face-first in full protest much stronger than the springs beneath his body.

\---

It is on that bed, prone, above the sheets, taking up all of its room despite the generous width the mattress provided, that Anatoly finds his brother once night has fully settled into the city streets.  That he is awake is immediately clear from the pattern of his breathing, and so Anatoly does not bother leaving the light off.  Petulance screams from the position of Vladimir's legs--one straight, flat on the sheet, the other bent to the side and upward, most likely in the same angle as when he undoubtedly flung himself down onto it—and his arms—curved beneath his head, hands tucked under his face which is not aimed towards the door.  A quiet breath falls from Anatoly's lips.  Pouting it is, then.

" _Malenkiy brat [little brother]_ ," he calls, earning no response.  Again.  Not even a twitch.  " _Nepostoyannyy_ _[cranky]_ ," he admonishes.  "Tell me, _bratik [little brother]_ ," he begins, tugging at the material covering Vladimir's legs, "when did you find time to purchase these?" 

The soft pair of pants and sleeveless shirt over his brother's frame are patterned in deep greens and browns, littered with lighter shades as well as black—a standard form of camouflage print. 

"If I am invisible," Vladimir's complaint sounds from behind his hands, his voice muffled, "then I might as well blend in."  It is a child's sinking to his tone.

"You are blending in nowhere, Vladimir.  This is no forest."  Stepping around the bed's frame, Anatoly removes his jacket, loosening a button on his shirt before working on his boots.  Feet bared, he sits on the edge of the bed where he can see Vladimir's face.  Reaching out his hand, Anatoly threads his fingers through blond tufts, his skin barely meeting with his brother's scalp before he moves away, tipping his head just out of reach enough to break contact.  A plaintive sound emanates from him, his face pinching in further displeasure.

Anatoly reaches further, and Vladimir turns his body over, no longer taking the entire bed but now curling up along one of its sides, facing away from Anatoly and attempting to look smaller and harder.  It does not work.  "Aht," Anatoly chides, rising on his knee only to slide himself onto the bed, as well, hooking an arm over Vladimir's frame.  "No running from me, _brat_." 

With a tug, Anatoly is pressed completely behind his brother, a leg cinching over his hip, an arm wrapped around his chest, palm flat. 

"You do not wish to touch me." 

Sighing, Anatoly props his chin on his brother's bare shoulder, aware of the scrape of his stubble against open skin.  "That is not true.  You know this."  At the disagreeing sound, he bites down into the tattooed flesh.  "Stop."

A scowl turns to face him, and Anatoly cannot help but be fond of its sharp angles, the ridges in the wrinkled brow, the corners of the downturned mouth that he quickly covers with his own.  Vladimir tries to push his face away, this time, but he will not let him.  From beneath their bodies, Anatoly's left hand quickly moves up to cradle Vladimir's head, holding him in place, pressing at the corner of his jaw to help open his mouth further.

Still, Vladimir's body remains tense, unyielding, even as Anatoly's fingers reach beneath the hem of his shirt, sliding along his stomach, pressing teasingly at his navel. 

"You want my touch, _brat_... you may have it."

Elbow straight, Anatoly stretches his fingers down beneath the mottled fabric, where he immediately encounters the firm form of Vladimir's cock. 

Anatoly hums in approval, his lips vibrating against Vladimir's.  "And you _do_ want it."

The returning moan confirms what he already knows—exactly how ready Vladimir is.

Letting out soothing sounds towards his brother's ear, Anatoly wraps his fingers around the firm length.  "Good," he murmurs, thumb keeping him steady as he squeezes, his palm drawing back towards his own leg, still hitched over Vladimir's body, keeping the only motion his hand alone.

Slowly, the lines in his brother's forehead shift.  They do not uncrease, rather their angles change and reverse, brow that was drawn low pinching upward as his mouth falls open.  Anatoly steals it, quickening his arm's movement and twisting his tongue against Vladimir's.  He does not need to see his brother's face to know exactly when it changes, when the line between pleasure and orgasm is crossed.  Anatoly thieves every last punched-out pant directly from Vladimir's mouth, his body curled tightly around his brother's even after he feels the splashes against his palm.   It is several moments more before he lets their mouths part, before he rests his shoulder against the mattress instead of his elbow, his left arm cinching around Vladimir, hand on the cross at the center of his chest. 

"You, _brat_ ," he places a firm kiss to his brother's neck, "are not invisible."

Flattening his right hand over the softening shaft, Anatoly pinned it to Vladimir's stomach in a firm hold.

"You are mine."


End file.
